


When Time Stood Still (and I Still Had You)

by sihtos



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Pining, Slight Canon Divergence, but dont worry, byleth is just trying to get a grip on reality and his emotions, byleth loves his tea, byleth pov, divine pulse angst, dont judge, el loves him too, mentions petra and caspar, oh! and dimitri makes an appearance, this is kinda emotional?, to a certain extant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihtos/pseuds/sihtos
Summary: Byleth has come to loathe his power from the goddess, because to him, it is anything but divine. Though Edelgard is always there with him, to stand the tests of time.





	When Time Stood Still (and I Still Had You)

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all! I'm back with another one. this is more angst based but I'm so excited to be able to explore this genre. I had a lot of fun writing it, as this was my first paired ending/couple I adored when I first played the game! and I had to spill the tea everywhere. just had to.

In the hush before winter, Byleth and Edelgard sit down for some tea. 

This has to be his favorite pastime during the war. He won’t admit it out loud, but in his still heart, Byleth appreciates the serenity of these moments. There is nothing but peace and quiet when doing it. No weapons, no Crests. Just two people sitting down for some well-brewed tea.

Byleth can solely focus his mind and energy into brewing the right blend. It doesn’t take tactful schemes to pick out the perfect leaves, nor any goddess-given magic to brew them. All it demands is a delicate recipe and the gentleness of his hands.

While the water simmers over the fire, he regards his companion for good measure. Edelgard is leaning over to her left, staring at a thorny rose bush in silent admiration. Her eyes have that same tender look in them as they do when she indulges in sweets. Innocent, really.

(Although the tea isn’t quite finished, Byleth feels his chest fill with warmth as though he had taken a sip. She looks so pretty sitting there, he thinks, knowing she is every bit as dangerous as she is gorgeous. How lovely it would be to stop time and enjoy this moment.)

(…but he _can_.)

(A power gifted to him from the goddess Sothis, known as Divine Pulse, grants him the ability to reveal both sides of time. What should be considered a blessing is anything but. It’s a damn curse.)

When he looks across the table at Edelgard, and he means _really_ looks at her, he is reminded of the many deaths he has prevented her from dying. 

A lance through the chest. Swords slitting her throat. Arrows pinned to her body like a curse doll. Demonic Beasts chewing her up and spitting her out. Dimitri actually getting his revenge with her head. 

He has lost count of how many times he had to rewind time just to save her and so many others, but he does remember this. Remembers the way the light slipped from their eyes. Remembers the way his head was about to split open from the pain as he rewound the clock. Remembers biting down on his own heart ‘till his mouth filled with blood. 

It’s too much. 

It’s red, all _red_, he’s seeing red. 

Like the sky above him, like the rose bush beside him, like her dress before him. Red, red, red…

“My teacher?”

He blinks once, then twice. Focuses his line of vision on her instead of the boiling teapot. Everything is a bit hazy, except for Edelgard. She looks concerned. 

“Are you okay?” the empress questions softly, quietly, afraid she could shatter the silence. Something inside him breaks. “You seem to be lost in thought.”

His jaw clenches. “I’m fine,” he assures her, placing that stoic demeanor over his face like the Flame Emperor’s mask, “just thinking about our next plan of attack.”

So much for peace. 

: : :

In the following battle, Byleth has to rewind time twice. Once for Petra and another for Caspar. 

It is a cruel reminder that he is not the strong, almighty being everyone makes him out to be. Their loss of life is his shortcomings as a leader. This power was supposed to make him _stronger_, not weaker. 

He’s been late so many times. 

How can he even move forward from that? What good is being able to see both sides of time when he can’t even prevent a certain future from happening?

He’s beginning to rely on the progenitor god’s power too much, he realizes. Even when he shouldn’t have the luxury to make that call because the victories were too great, he does it anyway, lives it over just to make sure it doesn’t happen again. 

Byleth decides to sleep on it. 

Memories of his should-be fallen comrades stain the walls of his unconscious like blood. The indelible images of Petra’s burning flesh and Caspar’s sliced throat are fresh at the front of his mind the moment he wakes. They weigh heavily like the lone moon in the sky, reminding him, perhaps, of some inescapable truth. 

: : :

Some weeks later, when they’re in the heat of battle, Edelgard breaks formation to throw herself in harm’s way for his sake. 

It’s like he’s gone back in time to the night they first met, only, their positions are switched: he’s the one staring helplessly while an axe tears through her back. Déjà vu halts him as though he’s caught in a time loop looking into those lavender eyes.

“My teacher—” she rasps while falling limp in his arm, and for a fraction of a second, he sees Jeralt, “take up Aymr…for me.”

(Ironic, because she was the reason he triggered the power within. She can’t be the beginning of all this if she wasn’t willing to help him end it.)

Something frays as he screams her name. An edge of time twisting against its natural flow. Next thing he knows, Byleth is walking through a wrong-colored world, breathing in sap, making the impossible possible. Because when time steadies again, he makes sure to beat death to punch in fear she might actually slip away from him in this timeline. 

This time, Byleth conjures a flurry of wind magic to push her back, essentially knocking her to the ground. No thoughts, just instinct takes over as he makes it in time for her to dodge the fatal blow. Doesn’t hesitate to cut down the enemy warrior before him like the Ashen Demon he is. 

He feels everything and nothing at once.

Afterwards, when the dust settles, Edelgard just stares at him. Alarmed. Eyes wide. Frightened, almost. 

And it _hurt_. 

It hurt Byleth to think that she fears him the same way she feared facing those slithering bastards. Because he did that in order to protect her. He doesn’t know which was going to be more haunting: the undone time of her death or this. 

But Byleth doesn’t give much of an explanation. Tries to grip his emotions like he does the Sword of the Creator. There is far too much going on around them for him to have the comfort of easing her doubts. This was war, and they had to move forward. 

(If only he could compress her into a crest stone, lock her away safely into his blade. Or maybe take the place of the one inside his heart instead.)

“You can’t do that,” he pleas, near desperate, “I need you to understand that.”

_You would’ve died._

“I know, I-I’m sorry…” she mumbles despairingly under her breath.

_No, you don’t know._

A hitch in his breath. “Just be careful out here.”

(There was so much more to be said, but the words settle in his throat like stones.)

So he opts to outstretch his hand, his gloved one, afraid that if they touch skin, he wouldn’t let go. And when she accepts, he pulls her to him gentler than he did when he pushed her back. Byleth does his best to apologize by gripping her hand tight, and he thinks maybe this is what apologies look like. 

Turquoise meets lavender, and time stills.

: : :

Byleth is aware that he loves her. 

It’s impossible to tell what made him fall in love with her first, the lavender eyes or the certain intensity of her gaze or maybe merely the way they can sit there in silence, reveling in the feeling of not being alone. After all they’d been through, this was bound to happen. It was only a matter of time.

Think of it like this: their love was like their tea. Before he fell in love with her, it was plain, lukewarm, nothing too special. The pot never stayed over the fire long enough for it to become something more, something warm. Drinking with her was smooth, easy to swallow. 

And then they begin spending more time together, adding fuel to the fire. The tea leaves become more tasteful and the brew even warmer. Almost hot. Byleth can practically see the steam encase around her like a dream haze. Drinking became more difficult as he had more to take in, more flavor, more heat. 

He wasn’t sure what was more addicting: the tea or simply being with her. There was probably more caffeine in his veins than there was blood. If you were to cut him open, he’d bleed tea. 

Oh gods, he’s in love. 

His love for her was a teacup. She could have as much of him as she wanted as long as she held on. But if she were to let go, he’d shatter to pieces. 

He prays she never lets go. 

: : :

This conversation was a long time coming.

It was an hourglass already set in motion, the sand falling too fast for his liking. Nothing could prepare him for the moment Edelgard came striding into his tent the night before their march to Fhirdiad. Time has run out. 

“Am I interrupting a moment of repose?” she asks while stepping inside his temporary base of operations, blushing faint when she does so. Perhaps it was just the light playing tricks on him. 

(That’s what Byleth tells himself, anyway.)

“Not at all,” he reassures her with a shake of his head. A smile of some sorts forms against his lips (and will) but he hides it by motioning towards the table with his chin, “please, come have a seat.”

While she takes the time to settle down in his chair, Byleth occupies himself with making a pot of tea. Although he knew she was bound to come by his tent at some point, he wasn’t expecting her to do it right _now_. But at least he brought several bags of tea leaves, enough for the road there and back home. 

Now this, he can do. Doing this, making tea in her quiet company, settles his nerves. It’s familiar to him, like routine between them. 

He glances over his shoulder to regard her like he did weeks ago when they were back at the monastery. Edelgard is leaning over the table with her jaw cradled in her palm, intently observing the topographical maps and weather patterns of the frigid northern kingdom. Shadows cast across her face, but gods, does she _glow_. 

Edelgard is beautiful. The candlelight doesn’t just illuminate her, it seems to caress her, wraps itself around her body, dips it in amber like a dragonfly. She’s only wearing a simple nightgown with her hair down, but he can see the slight definition of her leg muscle as it flexes while she shifts her weight in the chair. Scars mar the skin along her thighs, and it takes Byleth and all his self-restrain not to get not on his knees and kiss them. 

To prevent his thoughts from following his eyes, Byleth clears his throat. “It seems that chamomile is the only flavor I have on me at the moment. I hope you don’t mind. I know you enjoy your bergamot.”

Her rosy disposition becomes red. “No, chamomile will do just fine. Thank you for thinking of me.”

Byleth nods, then stares absentmindedly at the simmering teapot below him. Blinks once, then twice. Then the words form on his mouth long before he even thinks of them. 

“I can turn back on the hands of time.” 

Edelgard considers him. “Come again?”

“Do you remember the first night we met in Remire Village?” Byleth questions her huskily, as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. 

“How could I forget?” she counters wistfully, palm slipping from its hold. 

“Well, you know how I knew that the leader of the bandits was going to come straight for you?” Edelgard tilts her head in a nod. “I knew what he was going to do because before, I threw myself in front of you in order to protect you. But that meant the axe was going to tear through my back and kill me. I was supposed to die that night.”

Byleth lets that sink in for a moment before continuing. “But then the world spun in an opposite color, and I was greeted by this girl on an emerald throne. Sothis was her name. She was the progenitor god, the being who watches over Fódlan, the one who granted me this power to go back in time. All because we shared the same body.”

The notion makes him bite back a bitter laugh, but that doesn’t stop him from talking in crescendo. “That’s why I panicked the way I did the other day on the battlefield, when I pushed you back using magic. Because it was like that night we met, only, _you_ were the one who took the hit and not me.”

The remembrance burns through his veins like liquid fire, and all the colors of Divine Pulse glower behind his eyes, black and blue and green and purple and magenta and silver. Almost fools him into believing that using his powers was real and not just some figment of his imagination.

But something shakes him out of his reverie. 

Edelgard. 

“My teacher, are you—are you crying?”

“_Huh_?”

Byleth lifts his fingertips to brush against the planes of his cheeks gently, hesitantly. He lets out a shuddering breath when he realizes that, yes, he has been crying for quite some time now. He knows this because his skin is damp with emotion, something which hasn’t happened since his father died. 

History repeats itself once more, except this time, he’s not alone. 

Edelgard spoons him into an embrace from behind. The word bittersweet comes to mind as she leans her forehead between the juncture of his shoulder blades, so similar to the way her palm fits snug against his own. In the warmth of her arms, his anxiety dissolves like a sugar cube. 

(It’s a fragile thing, this, and must be treated as such.)

“I’m terrified, El,” he confesses. 

She rubs her nose into the fabric of his night shirt. Byleth can feel her heartbeat thrum against his back. He focuses on breathing to its pulse. “You’re a lot stronger than you think.”

“But I can’t _lose_ you,” he laments against his better judgment. “You were the reason why I started using this power to begin with. I can’t stop thinking about it. That if I lose this power now, then I face the possibility of losing you, too.” 

“But I’m here now, aren’t I?” she refutes in a lighter timbre, trying to rationalize his idle thoughts.

Though doubt eats away at his conscious like miasma. “What if I use more than I can take? And then what? If I make another mistake, there’s no hope of bringing you back. I try to picture a future without you there and I just don’t see myself in it.”

“Then why do you do it?” 

His hand loosens her hold.

“Because I don’t know how to do anything else.”

: : :

Byleth doesn’t know how many times he’s gone back. His chest suffers the weight of his decisions as it sears with white-hot pain, so intense, that he can see blemishes of black and blue fleck against the edge of his vision. He hasn’t been damaged on this scale before.

Him tearing apart time was tearing apart his soul. It is as though his mind and body have become disarrayed somewhere between time and space. Lost to the darkness of Zahras. 

But he cut open the sky. Returned from the alternate plane of existence to make things right. Dies a thousand deaths because there was a war to win. 

Byleth can barely breathe in his condition. Something fissures across his chest like a lightening bolt, almost cracks open his skull. It can only mean one thing.

The Crest of Flames is breaking.

He’s running out of time. 

Adrenaline surges through him as he makes haste towards Edelgard. At this point in time, she should be engaging Dimitri. (A duel to the death.) The thought is enough to speed up his movement down the corridor. The Sword of the Creator falters in its light. 

Though, he is trapped in an hourglass. Trudging through the sands of time. The ground gives way beneath him as it slips to the other side. She is so close but so far away. His head slams against glass. 

Because by the time he reaches the columns where the eagle and lion clash, he is too late. 

: : :

He may be The Beginning, but she was his end.

: : :

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

Byleth doesn’t know when it began, but once it did, it feels as though it has always been there. The incessant throb in his ears rouses him from slumber. It is a pulse he has only ever felt in his wrist, but now courses all over him—in his head, in his arms, in his chest.

This is what separated him from being human and demon. 

His _heart_. 

His heartbeat is flaming anew. 

There is a heat that spreads through his body at the notion. If there’s any stone left from the crest, it’s melting, melting, melting, dripping emotion into the hollow of his chest, filling it with everything he missed out on in his lifetime. His chest is flooded with water now, but the feeling is good, wonderful. 

(He can add the flavor to his tea. Commit the taste to memory. It sure is sweet.)

“How does it feel?” a voice asks from beside him. 

Byleth doesn’t have to look to know who it belongs to. Makes his heart skip a beat. “It…It _feels_.” 

Edelgard chuckles. “Sounds like something you’d say,” she murmurs under her breath, hand threading gently through her hair, lavender eyes on the ground, “I’m glad you’re able to experience it now.”

Byleth smiles. “Yeah, me too.” 

Then he drinks her in. She is sitting along the edge of his bed, within arms reach. Her legs are crossed around the ankle while her hands fumble with the tips of her hair. The silhouette of her body can be seen through the sheer fabric of her dress. She looks candid and beautiful.

His mouth runs dry when he leans his forehead against her temple. His nose grazes over her cheek as he takes a moment to breathe her in. Her saccharine scent goes straight to his head. 

Never did he think that he’d be able to be with her like this, but she _accepts_. One of her hands cups his face while the other fists his tousles. They were war-worn but in love.

There are so many questions he wants to ask her, so many things he wants to say. He wanted to know how they made it. He wanted to ask if his hair changed back to its original color. He wanted to tell her he loved her. 

But his lips kiss hers instead.

It’s all the warmest moments of teatime condensed into one single, delectable touch. The sweetest sugar melting on his tongue. Her mouth is soft but insistent on his own, moving with such sincerity, he thinks his heart might break.

With his eyes closed, he can feel nothing but her. She’s surrounding him and it’s almost overwhelming, almost too much with how good it is. 

Byleth thinks of how long he’s waited, all the fear and all the uncertainty and all the heartache. And all of it has been worth it, for this, for her. It burns to nothing beneath her lips, reduced to ashes by the stroke of her fingertips against his cheekbone.

For so long he’s been scared of seeing what could’ve happened instead of appreciating what did happen that he’s stopped living in the process. Byleth is done running away from his feelings, not when he could be running out of time. Although he can no longer turn back the hands of time, he must make the most of what time he has left.

There would never be a perfect time for him to confess his feelings, but now is as good a time as any. Because if being a professor has taught him anything, it was this. The inescapable truth. 

Time waits for no one.


End file.
